


Winter Endures

by R_Cookie



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-19
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2018-04-10 03:27:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4375412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R_Cookie/pseuds/R_Cookie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Story AU. Winter has come, and the true war will not stand to be ignored. In which Sansa's candle does not go unnoticed, and hounds were always meant to run with the wolves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winter Endures

**Author's Note:**

> Like a Fast & Furious movie, I'd ask you for a very healthy dose of suspension of disbelief should you choose to read this story. After scouring SanSan stories like it was the only mission in life, I've finally decided to try my hand at this - in part as an outlet for the stress that comes with a mentally draining job. (We all have our crosses to bear. -whimper-) Still. I hope you stick around. And happy reading!
> 
> Note: I was just regrettably eager to get this started. So, tis unedited - to be changed come tomorrow.

Two years ago, in a faintly lit chamber, with the roar of slaughter and a sea of fire raging beyond open windows, Sansa Stark had stood before him. Through the smothering whirl of desperation and anger, he had loomed over her, trembling with offence at her rejection.

“I could take you with me,” he had muttered. “No one would hurt you, or I’d kill them.”

But Sansa had still refused to meet his gaze, gave him but a shaky jerk of her head.

With a heavy step too unsteady by the wine weighing down his head, he growled and pressed his dagger against her throat. Blue, blue eyes widened, shining too brightly as tears formed. He wanted to crush something. Instead, with the dagger pressing a thin line of blood against a pale throat, he spoke of killers, his voice low and harsh, daring her to look him in the eye. Yet, with every cruel word, the fear written in the lines of her body began to fade, even as those tears finally traced their way down her cheeks.

Tightening his grip on the knife, he demanded the song she owed him from months past. And she gave it to him, her voice as clear and beautiful as he had imagined. He allowed her, after, to lower his arm and put aside the dagger. The expression on her face, he refused to acknowledge, only flinching violently when small palms cupped his face. Sansa Stark had risen to her toes then, and boldly placed a kiss on the unmarred flesh of his face, heedless of the blood and dirt and ruddy tears.

“You will not hurt me, ser,” she’d whispered firmly. Slender fingers tugged at her hair, and had come away with a blue ribbon which she pressed into his palm before he could say another word.

“Aye, little bird,” he’d muttered, turning away. “I won’t hurt you.”

Two years ago, in a faintly lit chamber, Sandor Clegane had left King’s Landing with a favour he had never dreamed of having, and a tattered, blood-stained scrap of cloth that he had been surprised to find she’d still kept after all that time.

He was also never more relieved, than in this very moment, that he had been drunk and stupid enough to have stolen it back from her bureau that night.

Because standing in the middle of the fucking clearing, surrounded by far too many pairs of golden eyes flashing amongst the trees in the moonlight, they were the only things that could stand between him and the biggest fucking wolf Sandor had ever seen in his cursed life.

\---

Some days, the desire to find a wineskin and drown himself once again in whatever piss swirl it contained was overwhelming. Between the pathetic excuse of a squire, and that big bitch, it was like to undo all the good that Elder Brother had done these last few years. All that rage and impatience, that consuming bloodlust, all carefully kept behind a wall that his new _companions_ seemed fucking bent on tearing down.

“Are we much farther from Winterfell?” the little squire boy asked.

Wrapping the cloak tighter around himself, Sandor barely suppressed his growl as he stomped through another mound of snow. Thrice damned cold.

“No,” he muttered, gently nudging the warm flank of Stranger. His horse offered a soft nicker.

The Big Bitch followed close behind, gods blessedly silent and willing to let him take the lead for this part of the journey. It had been too many years since she’d last set foot in Winterfell, she’d grudgingly admitted.

They stopped near the edge of the woods, where a small lookout once stood – now rotten and half buried in snow. The horses needed proper rest in these conditions. Sandor tethered Stranger to a tree, and ran a hand soothingly across the black destrier’s thickened coat. Their last winter had been more than a decade ago, and Sandor had briefly wondered if Stranger would still be prepared. He reached into the saddlebags and withdrew the small bowl he’d taken to carrying with him, pouring out what remained in the waterskin that had been tucked close to his body. Snow and frozen water he would rely on for Stranger only if there were no other choice. As it were, Sandor could wait to boil more drinking water for himself.

“Boy – ”

“He has a _name_ ,” the Big Bitch snapped. Sandor felt his eye twitch.

“Ser?” the squire quickly stepped in. There was a faint look of resignation on his face.

Sandor had been a breath away from retaliating when the boy gave a curt shake of his head, beseeching. Tired of the bloody squabbling, was he? Sandor ground his teeth.

“Get firewood. We’ll make camp here, an’ the horses will need clean water.”

The boy nodded, and scurried off.

With his boot, Sandor swiped most of the snow off a fallen log, and dropped himself heavily onto it. Hunched over, he unsheathed his bastard sword and settled in to sharpen it. From the corner of his eye, he watched the Big Bitch trudge away towards what remained of the lookout.

Winterfell lay just beyond.

And so did the little bird.

\---

The North truly was a wasteland of white come winter. Nothing for miles but snow and the dark skeletons of naked trees. For weeks now, the sky had steadily darkened, the long hours of daylight vanishing to long hours of grey. Time seemed to work in another way.

Sandor had no idea how long it had been since the squire boy had fucked off to run those errands. With the freezing wind picking up, biting relentlessly at his face, it felt like hours. Stiff fingers were moving on to putting the whetstone against daggers when heavy footsteps sounded through the nearby trees.

“M’lady!”

Sandor looked up to see the Big Bitch turn away from her brooding and make her way to the boy.

“Stannis,” the boy said grimly. “Stannis Baratheon is coming. His whole army.”

The look on the Big Bitch’s face, Sandor could not understand. Was there something these two fools had not told him?

“How d’you know it’s Stannis?” she asked carefully.

“He’s carrying his flaming heart banners. From the Blackwater,” the boy immediately answered. “I’ll never forget it.”

Of all the fucking things to happen, Sandor was not expecting the woman to take a second glance at Winterfell, and then stomp off towards her horse.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Sandor yells after her, rising to his feet. The squire boy potters off to yank his axe out of the stump he’d left it stuck in.

The Big Bitch readied her horse, not once bothering to look at him.

“To do my duty.”

“ _Which_ fucking duty? Because we still have no bloody idea how we’d get in – if Stannis is now marching on Winterfell, aye, that might create enough of a diversion – d’you mean to fucking join up with him in this fight?”

“No, I am going to do my duty to Renly Baratheon. I will see justice _done_ ,” the Big Bitch raised her voice, and finally glared at him in the eye. “You can stay here or you can follow. We will find you again either way.”

Without another word, she mounted her horse and took off.

He had not been left speechless many times before in his miserable life, but this was one of them. Sandor slammed his fist into a nearby tree, thoughts racing through his head. He sheathed the dagger and stalked over to Stranger, fisting a hand in the horse’s black mane, cursing viciously under his breath.

Just before he swung himself up onto Stranger, he caught a flickering at the corner of his eye. Sandor straightened and squinted at what glowed in the distance. He scrubbed his eyes, wanting hard to believe that it wasn’t just the snow fucking with his sight. Rushing to the lookout, Sandor watched the faint orange glow coming from the highest tower in Winterfell, wavering and strengthening in turn.

“Seven fucking hells.”

From where he stood, Sandor looked on as the gates of Winterfell opened to release an unending stream of riders and marching soldiers. Whatever the hell Stannis had thought to do, a siege was now out of the question – the Boltons were making the choice for him. His eyes darted back to the tower. His legs seemed frozen to the ground. But as the light finally went out, Sandor rushed to Stranger.

Sandor dug his heel into his destrier, and they tore through the trees. He was going to need the chaos of the battle if he wanted to make it past the walls of the castle. They were almost at the base of the forest when the howling began.

Wolves, Sandor thought, were not going to slow him down. They would outrun the pack, or simply kill them. Stranger had yet to show any distress.

But the howling only worsened, louder and louder it grew. When the first dark shadow caught his attention, flitting between the trees, Sandor’s hand went to the hilt of his sword. Stranger snorted, fussing, when more shadows began to amass. They lasted til the clearing when more than a dozen wolves finally burst forth from the trees. Snarling, snapping their jowls, the wolves circled them both. Stranger reared up on his hind legs, screaming.

“Calm, Stranger. Calm!”

Sandor unsheathed his sword, trying to keep track of how many wolves he would have to slaughter. He tightened his grip on the reins.

Just then, there came a low, low rumbling growl from before him. Nothing any of the beasts before could produce, surely. From the darkness of the forest, an unbelievably large paw emerged, pressing down hard on the snow. Sandor’s eyes widened, taking in the sight of the enormous body that followed.

The sigil of the Starks – come to fucking life.

The giant wolf had a light gray coat, and intelligent eyes of a deep gold. It stood tall, hackles bristling slightly, its ears erect and forward with its tail held vertical to the ground. The growling finally stopped.

Anybody with half a brain knew that the only direwolves known to exist south of the Wall belonged to the Stark children. Six wolves, he remembered. Yet, with the eldest son dead, the little bird’s killed, one beyond the Wall with the bastard son, and two of the other children thought lost far from here…

Sandor muttered soothingly to Stranger, sheathing his long sword. Slowly, warily, he dismounted. Every crunch of snow beneath his boots sounded painfully loud to his ears. His skin prickled with the number of eyes tracking his every move. Wild and unpredictable.

When there was only a few feet between him and the giant beast, Sandor carefully knelt down, the twinge in his bad leg going ignored. Only when he was certain the beast knew he meant to reach past his cloak did he move, to remove the little scraps of fabric that stayed in the pouch tied to his belt.

Because, if Sandor had to take a guess, looking down at him was the little Wolf Bitch’s lost direwolf.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, I own nothing of anything that is related to Martin's evil master creation that is Game of Thrones.


End file.
